But what I noticed most was the fantastic heat that was radiating up from the ground. It was far in excess of anything I’d expected or could explain.

"Yes," Fouché said, catching my consternation. "The apparatus has engaged. We have less than an hour."

"Until what?" I asked nervously as he started down the steps.

"Until any human foolish enough to remain in this area burns up like so much paper," Fouché answered, jumping to the ground and then waving me down. "Come! Time presses!"

The landscape surrounding the ship was not unlike that of many other countries in the "analog archipelago," that patchwork of countries that had fallen so far behind in the digital-technology race that they had given up the struggle. But the chaos that was enveloping this stretch of the valley of the Amu Darya river was alarming even for one of the most backward of nations. Emerging from large tunnel entrances that were supported by enormous timbers and fortified with sandbags was a host of people, some dressed in military fatigues and some in traditional Islamic garb, all rushing toward a great collection of buses, helicopters and jeeps. Many of the women carried small children who were, for the most part, screaming, and small wonder: the noise and the heat, combined with the looming silhouette of Tressalian’s ship, would have been enough to terrify much older and more comprehending souls. Me, for instance.

Looking ahead and through the dust whipped up by the chopper blades, I could see Slayton, Tarbell and the Kupermans fanned out in some kind of skirmishing order, weapons drawn. They were moving toward one tunnel entrance in particular, using their stun guns to incapacitate the occasional confused man who, apparently mistaking our team for members of the approaching American task force, stepped forward to try to stop us. As Fouché and I followed the others to the tunnel, I called out: "Julien! Just what the hell is this ‘apparatus,’ anyway?"

"A euphemistic label, eh?" Fouché answered with a laugh. "It is a weapon that your country’s Air Force began to research in the late 20th century, but it was never able to build a successful prototype. Colonel Slayton brought us the plans, Malcolm and Larissa refined them, and observe–a small glimpse of hell!"

"But what does it do?" I asked, realizing that although the sun had only just come over the eastern horizon, the temperature was climbing fantastically from one minute to the next.

"Destruction of the ozone layer over a confined area!" Fouché shouted back. "The Americans were never able to keep the hole stable or to close it when they wished!"

"And you can," I said, astonished. "But where is the damned thing?"

"The projecting unit is on Malcolm’s island in the North Sea. It operates through a series of satellites–Tressalian satellites!"

Suddenly and from all too close came the sharp report of small-arms fire. With a speed that shocked me, Fouché almost flew in my direction, enveloping me in his big arms and then rolling with me gracefully behind some nearby rocks. When we looked up, we saw that the shots had been fired by a man who was trying to keep any more people from boarding his already overloaded helicopter, which in a few seconds took off and began a flight to the southeast.

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